


Seeking Normality at the End of the World

by awkward_ace



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drabbles, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Multi, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Other, Random & Short, Romance, Smooching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-06-04 17:59:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15152591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkward_ace/pseuds/awkward_ace
Summary: This is an on-going collection of little one-shots and drabbles that pop into mind. They needed a home, so they go here, for your enjoyment. All feature little moments and situations of every-day life that happen even while the entire world is going to hell in a hand-basket. Some are funny, some are sweet, some are a little sad, but, y'know. That's normal.





	1. Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> Most of these feature my canon Quizzie, Pria Lavellan and their pretty man Cullen. Some, in my opinion, are more well-written than others, and some are just silly bits that had to be written down.

or, The Red Ribbon

Cullen had been right in the middle of a report when Pria had walked into his office, humming quietly, and gently pushed his paperwork away from him before settling herself in his lap. While he didn’t _mind_ per say, he did have to get the damned things _done_ and he very well couldn’t do that with her reclining comfortably on top of him.

“Inquisitor,” he protested mildly, again, as she fussed with the fur of his coat, brushing it back from his neck.

“Do you see anyone else in this room right now, Cullen?” she replied lightly but pointedly.

He shook his head slightly, smiling a little despite himself. “Pria,” he amended, and then shivered as her fingertips brushed his neck. “What are you doing, love?”

“Nothing,” she chirped with a kiss to the end of his nose. He raised an eyebrow dubiously and it climbed higher as he watched her pull a length of thin red ribbon out of her pocket and loop it delicately around his neck.

“Nothing,” he repeated, eyes flicking from it to her, the corner of his mouth curling in amusement, “Really.”

She smiled playfully at him— _that damn smile_ —and kissed his scar lightly as she tied a tiny bow, let the ribbon settle around the base of his neck, soft and silky as a whisper. “Nothing,” she confirmed, and got back to her feet.

“And where do you think you’re going now?” He rose after her, reached out and gently hooked his fingers through her belt. She made a startled sound as he tugged her back to him, laughed as she landed back in his lap, “I _was_ going to let you finish your work.”

“You’ve distracted me. Nothing to be done for it.”

“Nothing, hm?”

“Well…” he grinned impishly after a moment and pulled her closer, their noses just brushing, “Maybe _one_ thing.”

“Hmm. Subtlety. I’m afraid I’ve _completely_ missed what you’re after.”

Cullen pouted at her, “You’re making it very difficult to flirt with you.”

“Oh! _Terribly_ sorry, my lovely one, shall I kiss it better?”

“Yes.”

Pria laughed and lazily tossed her legs over the arm of his chair. “Happily,” she murmured, cradling his face in her hands and leaning in to kiss him deeply.

*-*-*-*

Cassandra glanced up as Cullen sat beside her on the bench, dropping his armor on the ground by them, and did a double take when the smallest flash of red caught her attention as it peeked out from the collar of his shirt. Frowning, she paused in mending her glove and straightened a little to tug his collar down, “Are you hurt?”

“No,” he replied, gently tapping her hand away, but not quick enough to deny her a look at the slender ribbon tied loosely around his neck. She blinked.

“What is that?”

“Nothing.”

“ _Nothing_?”

“Nothing,” he repeated firmly with a slight smile, and set about cleaning the armor at their feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks!
> 
> Okay, so for any of you who read this that also have read/will read my long-fic "The Twilight Court", I want you to know that Yes, absolutely, that thing is still being worked on. I will finish it! I'm just currently battling it out with the latest chapter, and it's proving to be quite the cunning opponent.
> 
> There was also a bunch of Life Crap that hit me all at once, so I've been somewhat distracted and unmotivated, but it's getting better bit by bit.
> 
> In the meantime, while I have it out fisticuffs style with that work, these are bits and pieces that I've jotted down whenever my brain was hit with an idea and when I wanted to write but just couldn't make Twilight Court cooperate that day. Enjoy them and thank you all so much for your patience and understanding.


	2. Lovely Names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen sometimes gets woken up in the best ways.

It was the softness that called him up from sleep. Softness and warmth pressed all along his side.

Light fingertips delicately sketched over his face, tracing the arch of a brow and the straight line of his nose. Following the curve of a cheek and his jaw, left his lips tingling faintly when they mapped the bow and bend of his mouth. He shivered faintly and sighed lightly as those fingers continued down his throat and chest, drawing lazy, absent patterns over his skin and outlining the scars that decorated his torso. He shivered again when the fingertips splayed against his stomach and a slender hand tracked over the trail of hair below his navel and further, brushing against him and over his thigh before slowly running back up his side.

Lips pressed against his ear, teeth nipping gently before kisses were trailed over his jaw and peppered over his nose and forehead. He sighed out a breath, smiled faintly as another kiss was dropped against his chin. “Good dream, my beauty?” Pria murmured, her lips brushing his.

Such lovely names she found for him. Cullen’s smile widened. “Immensely,” he mumbled back drowsily. “Please don’t stop.”

He felt her smile and she kissed him softly, her hand settling back on his chest and drawing lazy designs again. “Sleep,” she whispered, kissing his nose once more, “It is still awhile before dawn.”

He hummed in content agreement, vaguely feeling his hand as it moved from where it rested over his head to gently thread into her hair, combing through it and down her neck and shoulder. “And you?” he asked, hardly audible, half-asleep again already.

“If I sleep again, I sleep. Rest, emma’lath.” She smoothed his hair back from his forehead, kissed between his brows, which had furrowed.

“You should rest, too,” he protested quietly.

She laughed quietly, gently set her hand over his eyes as they started to flutter open. “I am resting. I am quite happy and relaxed here with you,” she assured, “Sleep, lover.”

She removed her hand when she felt his eyelashes cease their fluttering and resumed her leisurely, lazy sketch and exploration of his body, raining soft, tender kisses over his face and neck, along his shoulder. He settled into the attention and back into the mattress, his frown melting away. “Sweetness,” he sighed softly, his hand slipping loosely down to the mattress again as his breathing deepened.

“ _Ma vhenan_ ,” she whispered warmly, snuggling against his side and resting her head beside his, “Beloved.”


	3. Do he got the booty?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haldir Lavellan loves nothing more than bugging the shit out of his friend, the Commander. If he can bug the man and make him go red, all the better. Dorian and Iron Bull only encourage his shenanigans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by a picture of Cullen's butt. Someone had commented that one could "bounce a gold piece off that". After cackling madly for fifteen seconds, this happened.
> 
> I should really try and enforce a self-rule that if anything makes me cackle madly for more than fifteen seconds, I shouldn't do it, but I clearly have no self-control over that.

He DOOOOO!!!

Cullen stiffened as he felt something hit and _bounce off_ his backside.

“Huh!” Haldir’s voice said in amused astonishment behind him, “I was wrong.”

“Ha! Pay up!” Dorian crowed.

“I think it was two sovereigns each,” Bull added.

Cullen turned sharply to stare at the three who were seated rather comfortably in Bull’s usual corner of the Herald’s Rest. “Hal,” he growled, “What in the hell was that about?!”

Haldir looked up from dropping a handful of gold coins on the table and blinked rather owlishly. “What was what about?” the elf asked. Cullen glared, “What did you throw, and _why_?”

“Oh!”

The hunter leaned over, reaching out a bit to snatch up another coin that was on the floor, straightened again with an impish grin. “Lost a bet. I didn’t believe your arse was firm enough to bounce a gold piece off of,” he said, rather more brightly than Cullen felt was necessary, “I was wrong!”

The man went bright red, felt it right up to the tips of his ears along with roaring mortification.

“And we were right,” Bull pulled his portion of the pay-out to him while Dorian delicately picked up his coins. “Thank you, Commander,” the mage said, “We owe you a drink or two.”

“Who,” Cullen ground out, dragging his hands over his face, “Even _put_ this stupid idea in your heads?”

“Cole,” Haldir replied as he settled back against Bull’s side, propping his feet on an empty chair, “He overheard the thoughts of some of the young ladies around here, apparently.”

Cullen grit his teeth and turned on his heel, walking out stiffly, still burning red.

The three watched him go, Haldir frowning thoughtfully. “ _Oooh_ ,” he murmured, “Okay, without that stupid surcoat in the way while he’s walking, I see it.”

Bull snorted into his tankard.


	4. Kissing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen really, really, really likes kissing.

Kissing was something that, had anyone asked him, Cullen would have said he supposed he liked well enough.

It was something that had been a pleasant diversion, a small chance of intimacy allowed in the structures of the Order. A bit of fun, a stolen moment here and there of closeness, but never anything that electrified, thrilled, or left one panting and pining for more.

Or at least, that had been _before_.

Before coming to the Inquisition, before meeting Pria, before realizing she returned his affections.

_Now_ , if someone were to ask him, Cullen would say there was nothing he’d rather do with his time than spend all of it kissing the obstinately reckless mage and being kissed back.

Realistically, he knew that spending _all_ of his time in such engagement was not feasible, but that didn’t stop him from taking every chance that presented itself to do so, such as just this moment.

It was morning, and quite early still, the sun barely turning the sky pink, and he had woken wrapped in her arms and to whisper soft kisses being fluttered over his face. It was a fine way to wake up after weeks of her being away, and he had returned the softness until he felt her hands sliding delicately under his shirt and heard her sigh his name quietly.

Softness burned away to heat and hunger and now they were a tangled sprawl on his bed, hands clutching and groping and squeezing among the endless, devouring kisses that had breath short and lips swollen and flush.

“Missed you,” he mumbled breathlessly, barely breaking from her mouth to kiss along her ear, nibbling at the lobe. “Missed you _so much_.” She shivered and laughed—and airy, giddy sound—as she arched her back and rolled her hips into his, pushing them up and over.

He rolled easily onto his back with a quiet, pleased groan, skating fingertips and palms along her sides to settle on her ass, squeezing encouragingly when she rolled her hips into his again. “Missed you, too,” she breathed, tangling slender fingers in his hair, “Missed _this_.”

Cullen smiled and leaned up into another kiss, eager for more of her taste and touch, moaned lowly as her teeth tugged at his lower lip and her tongue licked a teasing, tingling trail along its edge. “More,” he pleaded softly, his arms tightening around her, hands seeking warm skin. She hummed quietly as he stroked her flank and curled her fingers more firmly into his hair, muffling his pleased gasp from the resulting sting with a deeper kiss.

Actually, if anyone were to ask him how he felt about kissing, now, he probably wouldn’t answer them. Doing so would mean it was one less moment spent otherwise wrapped up in _her_ and how it felt to have her against him again, to be in her arms and to have her lips kissing him. To be breathing her in and getting lost in the sharp-sweet pine-needle-and-vanilla scent of her.

“ _Pria_ ,” he groaned prayerfully, spine arching as her teeth sank into his neck, stinging pain and pleasure washing over him as she sucked at his skin, leaving her mark on him where one had already faded days and days ago. A shudder wracked his frame, hands clinging to her thighs tightly as their hips ground into one another again. She let go of his neck with a faint sound, ran her tongue softly over the tingling red spot left behind and then kissed him again, fisting the collar of his shirt and pulling him over and on top of her as she fell to her back. “ _More_ ,” she murmured agreeably, and utterly melted under him when his lips moved to comply.

If anyone asked what he thought of kissing, Cullen would say it was something he would be happy to spend eternity engaged in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by a post by cullenvhenan over on Tumblr.
> 
> I also firmly suspect this is how Pria wakes Cullen up, whenever they get back early from a trip.


	5. Nibbled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rylen and Barris have a little too much fun teasing their friend and superior officer.

“Andraste’s _ass_. The bloody _hell_ happened to _you_?”

Cullen, half-way through toweling his hair dry from his quick bath, paused in mid-motion and looked around somewhat vaguely. He had been alone in the heated baths (and bless Sera for discovering the hot pools beneath Skyhold) due to the relatively early hour of the morning, but it seemed that Captain Rylen had slunk in while he hadn’t been looking.

The other man stood near the edge of the pool, staring at him, eyes wide and with the strangest look of amusement, incredulity, and…approval (???) on his face.

“What?” Cullen said, completely unsure as to _what_ his second-in-command was talking about. He vaguely wondered if maybe Rylen hadn’t been out in the Approach for too long—perhaps the sun was scrambling his brains?

Rylen raised an eyebrow, his mouth curling into a mischievous grin. “Really? That out of it?”

Cullen’s brow furrowed and he pulled the towel away from his neck in favor of finger-combing his hair into a somewhat futile semblance of order. “ _What_?” he said, again, this time letting his tone grow a touch clipped.

Rylen sniggered and that was, of course, when Barris walked in, still looking half-asleep.

Until he got an eyeful of Cullen, of course.

The Templar abruptly came to a halt, “Maker’s _balls_ , Commander, _what happened?”_

Rylen burst out laughing as Cullen’s face became comically incredulous. “Got his brains shagged out is what happened!” he crowed, “And here I thought those louts were having me on!”

Cullen felt himself go seven shades of red and glanced down, taking stock of his chest, stomach, arms. He got redder.

_That infuriating, conniving little…!_

Marks. So many marks.

That devil-in-disguise of an elf had left love bites all along his chest and shoulders, several down his stomach and sketching the curve of his hip. Faint impressions of their teeth could just be made out on several of them, places where they had bit down particularly hard on the meatier parts of muscle.

He could only imagine what his neck looked like.

Barris was biting the inside of his lip and, to his credit, doing his very best to keep his face schooled into a pleasantly bland expression. “Ser, you look like you’ve been a chew toy,” he observed. The credit due to him was retracted because of the amusement that was coloring his voice.

Cullen, still blushing furiously, snatched his shirt from the bench nearby and hastily pulled it on, pointedly _not looking_ at the two others. “Keep laughing and I’ll have you on latrines until the end of time,” he growled at them.

Alright, so perhaps his lover had gotten a little carried away in their rather boisterously spontaneous decision to tackle him back on the bed the night before. And perhaps— _perhaps_ —they had taken great care in reducing him to a gasping, trembling, pleading mess of a man using only their decidedly capable mouth. And perhaps— _perhaps_ —he had found he enjoyed the sensation of their teeth digging into him rather more than he thought he would. And perhaps— _perhaps_ —he had one particularly glorious, rosy bruise on the inside of his thigh ( _Repayment for the one you left on me_ , they had told him smugly).

That did _not_ mean he would permit the two men he trusted most in keeping this damn army in line to _gleefully leer_ about it.

As for the “louts” Rylen thought were “having him on”, Cullen made a note to find out precisely who they were and see to it that they learned one way or another to keep their big mouths _shut_.

“Suppose it’s a good thing then that the end is nigh,” Rylen shot back with a wicked smile.

“Red’s a _good color_ for you, Commander,” Barris put in, losing the fight on keeping his expression neutral. A boyish, much-too-wide smile snuck onto his face. “Maybe you can find a scarf or something in that shade for your neck? Until you look—ehm...less _nibbled_.”

Rylen snorted and dissolved back into laughter.

Cullen glared at them. A leonine expression, one that tended to cow the lower ranks into terrified, shivering silence.

It only made Rylen and Barris cackle harder.

“Run,” he snarled at them, and took a menacing step forward.

“ _Ooh, touchy!_ ” Rylen yipped, taking a hasty jog backwards and turning quickly on his heel when Cullen took another step forward. “Best dash, Barris!”

“Oh, woe, angry lion!” Barris laughed, turning quickly and darting after him, “You’d think he hadn’t enjoyed himself!”

Cullen stopped his stalk after them in the doorway, listening to their laughter echoing back to him with an annoyed huff.

Tossing his towel over his shoulder, he turned left, rather than the right that would take him after his two (irritating) captains. He could deal with their teasing later, when the day had really started.

He still had an hour or so before the rest of Skyhold truly began to stir, and he intended to use every moment of it “nibbling” a matching set of marks on the pretty body of a certain Lavellan as _repayment_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was also inspired by a post by cullenvhenan on Tumblr. This was how I envisioned the aftermath.
> 
> Cullen doesn't really mind.
> 
> I also feel on a deep level that Rylen and Barris are a scheister-duo and believe it to be their unspoken job to keep Cullen grounded and to help him loosen-the-hell-up sometimes.


	6. I'm Out, Biatch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While still at Halamshiral, minutes after disbanding the Inquisition, Pria Lavellan has a revelation.

**Luv you, 'k BYE!**

 

It struck Pria, through her boiling rage and simmering frustration and resentment, that she was now _free_.

Free in a way she had not been for the last three years.

She no longer had to be _careful_.

The epiphany brought a savage, twisted smile to her lips and she turned on her heel suddenly, paying exactly no mind to the whispers and less-than-whispers that were swirling and gossiping around the courtyard, and stalked with predatory intention towards the side where Cullen stood, looking stormy and a trifle uncomfortable with the leers that were being tossed his way.

Her Bonded.

Her _husband_.

Her smile widened viciously and she took a great deal of satisfaction from the indignant squawk that emerged from the noble she forcefully shoved to the side and _away_ from him.

“Mine,” she said simply, and Cullen only looked at her in confusion for a second before she grabbed his collar with the one hand that remained to her and hauled him bodily against her to kiss him fiercely.

He made a faint strangled noise in his throat and then he was melting into her with a low sigh and a purring moan. His arms snaked around her tightly, and tighter still at the surprised gasps and startled exclamations that rippled through the court yard.

All it took was a quick, teasing nip to his lip and his mouth opened, tongue licking a heated streak against hers as his hand tangled into her hair. She felt the warm metal of his ring against the back of her neck and shivered, tightening her grip on his collar and silently cursing the loss of her arm.

What she wouldn’t _give_ to be able to wrap it around his neck. To tangle her fingers in his hair and tug at the curls, reduce him to a quietly mewling pile of a man.

She settled for biting at his lip again, harder this time, sharper, and suckling at it teasingly until she could feel him trembling faintly against her and his hand settled insistently on her ass, pulling her hips into his with a ragged, rumbling growl. He was panting as she broke away, his cheeks flushed prettily and his eyes dark and wild with arousal.

“ _Sweetness_ ,” he whispered huskily.

“Husband,” she murmured back, releasing her grip on his collar in favor of stroking her hand down his chest and stomach, tucking between them and lower to gently cup against him for a moment. His breath caught. “My lady wife,” he breathed reverently, pressing into her touch.

Pria smiled and feathered a softer kiss against his lips, rubbed her nose against his. “Later? There’s a few things I must see to, yet.”

Cullen inclined his head, voice heavy and rough with desire, “Of course.” He cleared his throat, arms falling away from her and he took her hand, raising it to kiss her knuckles tenderly, “Until then.”

She returned the gentle squeeze he gave and turned away, walking back through the courtyard amidst much gawking and shrill whispering. The savage smile crept back onto her face.

_Take what moments of happiness you can…_

Free. No need to be careful.

Pria thought she was rather going to enjoy shedding the identity of Inquisitor and leaving it in the dust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So basically Pria finally has their patience worn out by the time Trespasser is done and they are DONE so they disband the Inquisition and spend the rest of their time giving Orlais a giant middle-finger while making out with their pretty new husband and then making themselves a Living Nightmare for the leaders of southern Thedas in the years that follow because they have amassed their own wealth and power and enough good-will to have clout.
> 
> Pria enjoys every second of not being Inquisitor but still being able to make shem nobles quake in their boots. Cullen enjoys every second of watching his spit-fire wife terrorize the Orlesian court.


	7. Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last thing he wants is for the Inquisitor to see him like this. But it's a little late for that now, and besides, his hands feel so good when they're cradled in hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place before any romance starts up, but these two mule-headed twits have managed to become something like friends.

**In holy palmer's kiss**

 

****

The nib of the quill cracked, right across the tip, and ink splattered messily across paper.

Cullen swore loudly and threw the ruined pen away from him with an angry jerk before clenching his hands, hoping that fists would ease the tremors, _willing_ the trembling to cease in his fingers.

It didn’t, and he grit his teeth in frustration as his hands continued to shake, compounding the pressure that was building at the base of his skull and behind his eyes.

“ _Dammit_ ,” he growled quietly, and pressed his still-clenched fists into his eyes.

There was a soft knock at the door and then a quiet creak as it opened. “ _What now_?” he snapped, not bothering to look up.

“Commander? What’s wrong?”

The bottom of his stomach dropped and he swallowed roughly. _Shit._ Of all voices, it had to be _that one_.

_Hers._

The door shut with a soft click and he dragged his fists from his face, forced his hands to open and clutch at his breeches under his desk. “Nothing,” he replied, “I’m fine.”

The Inquisitor raised an eyebrow and walked over to him, the silk of her tunic rustling with a soft sigh. “You don’t look like ‘fine’,” she observed wryly, eyeing him carefully. Her gaze settled on his hands and her brow furrowed. “Is it the lyrium?” she asked softly after a moment.

Cullen swallowed roughly again, hesitating before inclining his head once. “Yes. But you needn’t worry—I can still see to my duties. I will not allow—”

“Tch!” came the dismissive scoff and he found her moving, nudging him and his chair back just enough to allow her to stand between his knees and half-sit up on the desk. He felt his neck and face heat, this time from the nearness of her and from the soft caress of her scent that teased his nose. _Maker, but she smells good._ Earthy, clean, sweet.

And with her standing there, it would be so easy to run his shaking hands gently over her waist and tug her to him, maybe into his lap—what would it feel like to hold her in his arms like that?

“Give me your hands,” she bade gently, holding hers out to him.

More hesitation before he found himself slowly lifting his hands and setting them lightly in hers. They still trembled and he felt shame heating his neck and face again. _Bloody good you are. Shaking hands, can’t even hold a quill, let alone a sword._

Her thumb brushed gently across the leather of his glove before she released them, “Take your gloves off.”

“What? Why?”

“That wasn’t a request, Commander. Gloves off.”

He blinked, watched her reach into the pouch at her belt and remove a small, silvery box as he slowly complied, fumbling with the buckles of his bracers. After a fruitless minute, her hands gently pushed his aside and slender, clever fingers made short work of them, dropping metal and leather aside and leaving his hands bare and exposed.

His beaten, cracked, scarred hands.

His palms and fingers were rough from use and from a lifetime of sword hilts and shield straps, and no matter how much he scrubbed them, there was a thin layer of dirt that had been ground into his skin. Nails worn short, one or two torn and bruised, his knuckles a little swollen from being one-too-many-times jammed.

More shame. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and cringed at the hoarseness in his own voice. _Can’t even pull off my own stupid gloves._

And he felt _naked_ without them.

What must she think of such hands?

“Hush,” she replied quietly, “You’ve done nothing to apologize for.”

_If only that were true._

A flick of a latch and the little box was open; he smelled elderflower, the honey scent of beeswax, and oak-moss, and he watched her take out a small bar from the box and work it between her hands for a few moments. Continued to watch when the bar was dropped back into its box and then his breath stilled a little when she took one of his hands between hers and began to gently massage his palm, starting at the heel and slowly working up towards his knuckles.

A shiver worked its way down his back as he felt tendons twitch and relax, and his skin warmed and flushed where her fingertips passed. Cartilage and bone crackled quietly, and aching tension he had forgotten was there abruptly ceased to exist. Bit by bit, the trembling in his hand began to ease, or to at least be overshadowed by the content pleasure that was building.

He studied her hands, marveled at them. Her hands were strong for all their slender appearance. Strong and firm, self-assured, but gentle, with the faintest rasp of calluses. Healer’s hands, Leliana had called them once.

She’d gotten a couple of rings from somewhere—a smooth wooden band around her thumb, oiled to a lazy shine, and a band of green stone around her middle finger. Someone (Sera, he wagered) had drawn a rather crude scribble of flowers on the back of one hand and had painted her nails an odd sort of blue.

He shivered as another tendon released some of its tension and discovered that his head felt a little light, his eyelids a little heavy. He hadn’t realized how _good_ it would feel to have his hands rubbed down like this.

“Helping at all?” she asked once she had begun to work diligently at his knuckles. He let out a soft, sharp breath as one popped, “Yes. Somehow. Thank you.”

The Inquisitor hummed an affirmation and carefully worked along his fingers.

He nodded towards the box after another moment, “What is that?” It smelled good. And it felt good, whatever it was—it was smooth and let her skin glide against his, and the stinging cracks across his knuckles from windburn were beginning to feel softer.

“Salve bar,” she said, “Like lotion, but easier to carry, and a little more durable in bad weather. And in this case, it also has healing properties in addition to making one’s skin lily soft.”

“A Dalish trick?”

“Mm-mm. Rivaini, actually.”

“Oh?” he dragged his eyes away from their hands, from watching hers move, to look up at her. “I didn’t know your clan ranged that far.”

She glanced up at him and gave him a faint half-smile, “They don’t. Not anymore, anyway.”

His hand was gently set down and his other taken to receive the same treatment as the first. He continued to look up at her, waiting for her to elaborate. When no further remark came, he bit at the inside of his cheek before carefully inquiring, “Where did you learn it, then?”

Another glance at him. He noticed her face went carefully still and calm and a twinge of guilt prodded him. He’d pushed too far.

“My mother was Rivaini,” she said softly and then focused on his knuckles with pointed determination.

A Rivaini mother. He had pushed a little too far, but she had still allowed him to learn a little more of her, and he tucked that bit of knowledge safely away with the rest of what he knew of this Dalish mage, to be pondered over and treasured later on when sleep eluded him.

She passed her fingertips over his with a final sweep and another quiet crackle and released his hand, “There. Do they feel a little better, at least?”

Cullen tore his gaze from her to look down at his hands, lifted them and flexed experimentally. Still a little shaky, but not as tremulous as before and significantly looser, more relaxed. “Much,” he replied, “Thank you, Inquisitor.”

“You don’t have to call me that. Privately, anyway.”

He rubbed his hands together as he looked up, smiling a tiny, rueful smile. “I do have to,” he murmured. Because if he didn’t, he might forget himself. If he didn’t, he might start _thinking things_. Things that were wonderful and lovely and sweet and utterly impossible.

They were at war.

She was the _Inquisitor._ His superior. The _Herald of Andraste_.

And he was…him.

Tiny, insignificant, battered, half-broken, unworthy _him_.

And her name…oh, but it _tasted_ so temptingly good on his tongue, when he dared whisper it aloud to himself when he was alone.

It would be very, very easy to forget himself if he forwent her title and used her name.

His hands twitched faintly of their own accord, prickling with a desire to reach for hers again and to curl his fingers around hers.

It would be very, very easy to forget himself if he did so.

Cullen reached down and picked up his gloves and bracers and began to pull them back on, tried to ignore the lingering smell of elderflower and how the worn leather slid against his smoothed skin.

“I see,” she said, and he tried to tell himself that he was just imagining the tightness and disappointment in her voice. “Well. I will let you get back to work then, Commander. Please let me know if you need anything.”

“Of course,” he inclined his head and watched her collect the little box, flipping it shut and rubbing her thumb over the top of it as she stepped away from him and walked to the door and out of his office.

He felt the phantom brush of her hands on his for a long time after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen.
> 
> Listen.
> 
> Have y'all ever had a hand massage? It's pretty nice. I highly recommend it, especially after a lot of writing or drawing.


	8. Rough Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a bad day, and Cullen finally decided to stop being stubborn and ask for some assistance. Pria is glad to help.
> 
> Ye standard back-massage trope.

**Let me know if I'm being too rough**

 

Large hands settled on her waist and Pria yipped in alarm, spinning quickly to face the intruder into her space—and found tired, blood-shot, bleary brown eyes in a paler-than-normal face, ashen circles under them, blond curls disheveled. Cullen looked drawn, almost gaunt, and the hunch of his shoulders told her that he was carrying tension and, most likely, pain in his back and joints.

“Oh, Cullen,” she murmured, finding his skin cool and clammy when she touched his face, “Bad day?”

A thin, brittle smile, “That is a way of saying it. Apologies for startling you.”

She shook her head, “No—think nothing of it. What can I do to help?”

He swallowed harshly and let her go in favor of rubbing the back of his neck, letting out a slow, careful breath through his nose. “I…would you—I don’t mean to…to bother you or…keep you away from anything—”

“Hush. You are my priority. What do you need from me?”

He swallowed again, hesitating, before his head bowed with a heavy sigh of defeat. “I just—that salve you used last time—do you have anymore…? Would you…?” he asked quietly.

Her brow furrowed for a moment then smoothed, ears perking to attention, “The warming balm?”

He nodded; she smiled. “I made more just recently. Sit on the bed—let me help you with that armor,” she guided him gently to sit, caught his mantle as he carefully shrugged out of it and began to unbuckle his plate.

“Thank you,” he whispered, pressing his forehead against her shoulder. She kissed his temple, tasted salt-sweat, “You are more than welcome, beloved.”

His armor was dropped beside the bed to be dealt with later, and her stomach clenched in sympathy at the wince that pinched his face as he pulled off his shirt. Motioning for him to lay back, she turned and walked to the small work bench where her salves and ingredients sat, selecting a short, rather fat jar from the line-up, “You could have come to me sooner.”

“I thought I could handle it,” he admitted tiredly, “And I could—did—for a while.”

“Stubborn man,” she set the jar near him on the bed, coaxed him over to his stomach before crawling up to carefully straddle his waist. “Where is it worst?”

Cullen grimaced, “It’s…it’s a little hard to tell.”

A generous dollop of salve was scooped from the jar and she rubbed it between her palms, “Alright, then we’ll start with the usual problem spots and go from there.”

He hissed quietly under his breath as she began at his neck and shoulders and moved down, first coating his skin in a thin layer of salve before moving back up and working at places where knots and tension normally sat, massaging in deep, careful circles. Soon his muffled, pained mutterings began to subside into soft sighs of pleasure, and she felt his muscles begin to loosen.

“Any places showing up I need to know of?”

“Lower,” he mumbled, “Feels wrenched.”

“Do you want me to use more salve for it or…?”

She had seen her father use lightning in a low capacity, once or twice, to loosen tight muscles and painful wrenches in the backs of the hunters and crafters. He had done so when his more potent remedies hadn’t eased the problem, and she had suggested it to Cullen once not long after he had told her that he no longer took lyrium. He had been very hesitant at first (understandably) but had eventually agreed one day when a shoulder would just not cease its painful twinging and pulling.

“Magic, please,” he said after a moment.

Pria nodded and leaned down to kiss the back of his head, straightened again as she set her hands across his lower back. “Deep breaths through your nose,” she instructed gently, “And hold as still as you can.”

He nodded and did as he was bade, breathing slowly through his nose and letting it out after a count of three. She gave him a few breaths before she reached out of herself and in, felt the familiar crackle of storms and the tingle of the Fade, pulled two tiny streams to her hands. A faint fizzle and a pop and lightning danced and buzzed around her hands, lightning that she carefully guided into his skin, deeper, fingertips tracing muscle and bone. A shiver passed through him, a twitch here, a twitch there.

He grunted quietly in pain.

“Too much?” she asked. He shook his head, “No—just odd.”

She continued, letting the gentle flow bounce along, his muscles bunching in protest at their sudden assault before loosening under her hands. She moved slowly upwards, steadily tapering the stream back, just to be sure, and released her magic once she reached his shoulders to resume massaging. He went lax under her all at once, breath rushing out heavily. Boneless.

“Now?” she murmured softly, working her fingers through his mussed curls, scratching his scalp gently. He didn’t reply except for a pleased, airy sort of groan. She laughed and climbed off him, scooping up the jar to return it to her bench.

He was pouting at her when she returned to the bed, not having moved an inch. She raised an eyebrow and smiled, “And why am I getting that sad-puppy face?”

“You _stopped_ ,” he grumbled.

“Oh! Your forgiveness, Commander!”

His pout deepened, “Please?”

How could she resist this pretty human with his sad-puppy eyes? Pria climbed back onto the bed and resumed her ministrations, rubbing large, slow circles over his back and shoulders, following his spine up, down, and around again.

He’d spent time without a shirt in the sun, recently, she noted, finding his shoulders dusted with freckles. She kissed a patch of them at the base of his neck, wiped her lips on her sleeve; the warming salve tingled. He sighed quietly in contentment, eyes drifting shut.

“Going to sleep, vhenan?”

“Mm-mm.”

She didn’t _quite_ believe that. His voice sounded drowsy and relaxed, which was an improvement to the strain that had been in it when he’d come in. He probably hadn’t slept well the night before. Her hands slid up along either side of his spine, a little pressure from the heels of her palms popping a few vertebrae and coaxing the last of his tension out. “Rest, Cullen,” she whispered, settling herself comfortably against his back, tangling her legs through his, “Sleep.”

He seemed to relax more, if possible, as her weight settled against his back, his breath starting to come in deep and even, nuzzling into the furs and blankets as her fingers gently combed through his hair. “Pria,” he mumbled. “Love you.”

She kissed the edge of his jaw, “I love you, too, Cullen.”

A crooked half-smile tugged his mouth up faintly, “Mm. Again.”

Such a puppy.

She kissed under his ear. “I love you.”

His fingers laced with hers, squeezing gently as her hand settled atop his. “Again?”

She laughed quietly and nuzzled the crook of his neck, “ _Ar lath ma, vheeran.”_

She felt more than saw his brow furrow, and he was quiet for a long moment. “Vee… _vher-aan…_?” he asked hesitantly. She grinned at the clumsy attempt. He tried, which was enough for her. “ _Vheeran_ ,” she repeated, kissing the ball of his shoulder, “I love you, my lion.”

His ears turned pink and she bit her lip to keep herself from making a noise at the adorableness of it.

He always scoffed at the comparison to the great cats, but with his thick curls, pretty brown eyes and the roar his voice could pitch to when out among the troops, she didn’t disagree with it. Particularly because she had seen the _other_ side of his leonine ways, having caught him sprawled lazily in a sunbeam on her couch, eyes heavy in a half-doze as he read. He’d only moved when he’d seen her, and then only to stretch languidly and resettle with his head in her lap when she sat by him. He’d fallen asleep not long after.

“Again,” he said, voice soft. “Please.”

Pria gently ran her knuckles down his side and slid her fingers past the waistband of his trousers, pressing lightly against the curve of his hip. His breath caught quietly, let out with a low shudder. “I love you, Cullen,” she whispered against his ear, “My lion. My heart. My Honey-tongue. My Cully-Wully Cake.” She kissed the curve of it, “I love you, I love you, I love you.” Another kiss, to the corner of his mouth, for good measure, “I love you.”

He was smiling, happily sighing as she nuzzled his neck, returning the soft squeeze of her hand and pulling it close to kiss her knuckles. “My Pria,” he breathed.

“All yours,” she assured him, and lay quietly against him long after he had drifted to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remember once, when I was younger, going with my mom to the chiropractor. A big truck had hit her car and she hurt her back in the accident and to treat it, one of the things the doc did was slap these li'l electrode type pads on the muscle of the area and crank up a machine to a low voltage. I was fascinated, because you could actually see how her back muscled would contract a little and then relax.
> 
> I think that's where this came from.


	9. Drunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the newly-made Inquisitor is a teeny bit drunk and Cullen is the one who ends up having to handle that.

** One tee-many mar-toonies **

 

“Commander!”

Cullen jumped as a slender, solid form crashed into him, hands grabbing onto his shoulders as his arms automatically went around their waist. “Maker’s breath!” he exclaimed, finding himself with his arms full of a giggling, recently-elected Inquisitor. “Inquisitor! You startled me.”

“That was the point!” she beamed, giggling again as she peered up at him, her face flushed a rosy pink, her lower lip stained a soft purple. “I am _stealth incarnate_.”

“And drunk, it seems.”

“M-m-m _a-a-aybe_ a li’l bit.”

“Right. Dorian, Iron Bull or Varric?”

“Yes, to all!”

“They _all_ gave you wine?”

“No! _Dorian_ gave me wine. I dunno what Bull was drinking but I’m pretty sure I could use it for fire-eating.”

“Wonderful—I apologize did you just say ‘fire-eating’?”

“Yes! M’uncle taught me, but I haven’t done it in _years—_ oh! I should practice!”

She made to step away from him and he hastily caught her as she stumbled slightly and because that sounded like a _Bad Idea_. “Perhaps wait until you have sobered up, Inquisitor?” he suggested as she slumped back against him. “Just…in case.”

“Hmm…I _guess_ , since it’s you asking,” she mumbled agreeably and nuzzled her face against the fur of his coat. A soft huff of laughter escaped him before he could help himself—who would have thought someone as formidable as she was turning out to be would have been so _adorable_ when drunk?

“I think perhaps we should get you to your quarters,” he suggested gently.

“ _N-no-o-o_ ,” she whined, “I _can’t sleep_ in there.”

“No one said anything about you having to sleep yet, my lady.”

She peered up at him, eyes narrowed before she grinned impishly, “S’that you’re way of suggesting something _else_ , Commander?”

He blinked before her meaning came to him and he cleared his throat awkwardly, his face heating. “Uh…no. Not…not quite,” he replied.

She pouted, and Maker help him if that wasn’t adorable, too. “Damn,” she mumbled.

Cullen shook his head and easily scooped her up into his arms, bit back another laugh at the startled yelp that escaped her as her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. “Don’ drop me!”

“I would never,” he assured her, tightening his hold on her as he headed for the stair case. His amusement sobered a little as he remembered the last time he had held her in this way, how very cold and still she had been, how bloodied and battered. How his heart had pounded in his chest, fear clawing its way through him.

He shook his head to clear it—she had survived, miraculously. She had come back to him—to _them_. She always came back. He had to focus on that now, and not what had almost been.

The Inquisitor’s lips pressed softly against his neck, just above the collar of his shirt and he shivered. “Mm. You smell good. You always smell good,” she murmured against his skin as they made it to the great hall.

“I…thank you?” he said, a little uncertain how to respond—if he should have responded at all. She was drunk, after all, things she said had to be taken with a little salt, as sweet as they were.

“Welcome!”

“Maker,” he chuckled, shouldering the door to her tower open. “If the world knew this side of you, Inquisitor.”

Another soft giggle and she leaned back a bit, smiling and tilting her head giddily, “They would be appalled! The so-called Herald of Andraste, acting a tit! The horror of it all!” She held the back of one hand to her forehead dramatically, “Woe.”

“Well, at least you are aware.”

“I’m _always ‘ware_ , ser,” she informed him, gently tapping his nose, “Drunk ‘r’ not.”

“Of course, Inquisitor.”

They’d made it to her quarters and he somehow managed to get the door open and stepped through, only setting her on her feet again when they were up the steps and before her bed. She laughed softly, swaying as he did so, hands moving back to his shoulders to steady herself. “Everything’s spinning,” she murmured.

“That would be the wine. And whatever it was that Bull gave you,” he replied, setting a steadying hand on her waist (or at least that’s what he told himself), “Perhaps a little sleep would be best.”

“Don’ wanna sleep. Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Bed’s too _big_. Room’s too _big_. An’ I still am’t…” she paused, brow furrowed, “Aren’t…?”

“You still aren’t…?” he prompted gently, and did his best to not be too amused at how her speech had apparently decided _now_ was the time to abandon her. She made a face. “ _I am not_ ,” she tried again, slowly, “used to sleeping alone. Still.” She looked a little pleased with herself for managing to salvage it. “‘T’s better when ‘m’gone. Away,” she continued, “I sleep better. ‘Cause I share a tent. Then ‘s’like before.”

He felt her sway again, and shiver faintly before her ears suddenly drooped from their happy, relaxed cant. “My lady? Are you alright?” he asked, quietly, wondering if he needed to call for a healer.

She sniffled and abruptly pulled her hands away from him, scrubbed at her eyes with a sleeve as she turned away and walked unsteadily over to the hearth, sitting down in front of it heavily. “‘M’fine,” she mumbled thickly, “Sorry. ‘S’fine, go…go back to…t’wha’ever you were doing, C’mander.”

He almost believed her. Almost. Just like he almost turned and did as she said, almost turned and walked out. But he didn’t—couldn’t—because he saw a tear roll silently down her cheek as he walked towards the steps, glimmering in the firelight. Cullen stopped when he saw that tear because he found himself breathless, his chest tight and painful at the sight of her crying.

He had never seen her cry before, not even after Haven when they had all been floundering in the mountains, aimless and afraid. Not even after Redcliffe and the future that had caused her so much pain and the alliance that had made him speak harshly, had nearly frayed their tenuous friendship beyond repair. Not even at the very beginning of it all, when she had been wild-eyed and wary of the people who reached out to reverently touch her and the people who screamed at her for murdering the Divine. He had thought there was nothing that _could_ make her cry.

She sniffled again with a soft hiccup and scrubbed once more at her eyes and that was all that was needed to send him striding quickly back to her. He moved carefully to sit by her on the floor and gently gathered her up in his arms again, pulling her into him with her head tucking against his neck. “Don’t cry,” he said softly, “Please.”

“S-s’rry,” she mumbled tremulously with another sniffle, and she curled up in his lap, fisting her hands tightly into the fur of his coat. And then she shuddered and a soft sob escaped her, “Spirits, I _miss them_.”

“Who?” he asked, gently smoothing a hand over her hair, down her back, felt her trembling faintly.

“M’family,” came the muffled response, “Miss them. We…we slept together. Since I was a child—warmer. Safer. An’…an’ _now_ …”

And now she slept alone, in a big bed, in a big room, in a big stone keep that was full of holes and crumbling spots. Far away from her family and their aravels.

“How d’you do it?” she murmured and he tilted his head to peer down at her, only to find her face hidden against his coat. “Do what?” he prompted gently.

The Inquisitor’s face, when she pulled back to look at him, was tear-streaked and drawn and so very tired. He found the silent crying worse—silent tears were the sort of thing that spilled out of a person when there was no way they could hold any more, but there was also no way they could find the energy to sob and mourn and scream. He was starting to become well-acquainted with such tears himself.

How many times had she silently cried away from their eyes? When she was alone?

“How d’you shems manage t’be so _alone_?” she whispered, “E’vr’yone gets a sep’rate bed ‘n’ plate ‘n’ y’don’t _share things_ —there’s so much _mine_. Where’s th’ _ours_?”

“We do,” he replied slowly, gently rubbing soft, soothing circles over her back. “Share things, I mean. Perhaps just…not quite to the extent you have known.”

“S’pose shemlen don’ worry s’much ‘bout _survival_ ,” came the bitter-tinged grumble.

Cullen winced faintly, recalled their rather heated, first argument. He had wanted to send a small company to her clan with their message of her survival. He could now admit that his approach had been very, very wrong and he silently agreed that he had, perhaps, deserved to be referred to as a “meathead” along with several other colorful things she had hurled at him. “No,” he agreed, “I suppose we don’t. Not the way your people must, I imagine, at any rate.”

She sighed and became rather heavy against him all at once, sinking into him and letting him keep her upright as if it was too much work for her to do. “M’sorry, Cullen,” she murmured after a moment, “You don’ deserve t’deal with me like this. I’ll…I’ll do better.”

“My lady, I am not ‘dealing’ with you.”

“Tch, yes y’are. M’drunk an’…emotional. M’sorry.”

“I would much rather face an emotional drunk than an angry one. Angry drunks tend to try and hit one with things like table legs.”

She snorted faintly and then giggled airily, finally looking up at him, “ _Table legs_?”

He nodded solemnly, “Table legs. Solid oak. Rather impressive that they ripped it off in the first place.”

“Y’shouldn’t have come in an’ soured their good time!”

“I did nothing of the sort! _I_ was trying to keep the peace.”

“Nuh-uh, I bet y’came in with that _Serious Face_ of yours an’ were like ‘Enough of this nonsense’!”

He tried not to snicker as she pitched her voice lower with a rather abysmal attempt at what he assumed was supposed to be a Fereldan accent. “I never.”

“Y’do! Y’did _yesterday_!”

“When?”

“War room. Sera’s request.”

“Maker’s breath, she wants _jars of_ —“

“That face!” she poked his nose gently with another airy giggle, “Th’one you’re makin’ _right now_.”

He rolled his eyes, which was something that he seemed to do rather frequently around her. It was funny, he couldn’t remember rolling his eyes much in the last ten years, and then this reckless, wonderful elf showed up and now he was rolling them at least several times a week.

“As you say, Inquisitor.”

“So serious,” she chided gently and kissed his cheek. He flushed a little but then his attention was diverted as she shifted and he carefully helped her regain her feet, keeping her weight as they rose. “Are you going to be alright?” he asked, “I can have someone bring you some tea or anything you might require.”

The Inquisitor shook her head, “No. M’fine. Thank you, Cullen.”

He nodded and found himself reaching up and gently wiping her cheeks dry with his thumb—or trying to, but she flinched away and he paused, felt a prickle of shame and embarrassment at the familiar gesture. “I apologize, Inquisitor, I—”

“No,” she replied firmly, taking his hand and picking at the buckles that held on his vambrace. “Just don’ like your _gloves_.”

“What?”

She scrabbled at the buckle again, finally managed to loosen one and smiled a little triumphantly. “The _gloves_. Don’ like ‘em. Don’ wear them if it’s jus’ _us_.”

Cullen blinked, watching blankly as she let the vambrace drop to the floor and then gently—delicately, almost—peeled his glove off. “Us?” he echoed in confusion.

She nodded and dropped the glove to cradle his now bare hand between hers. “Y’can wear them when we’re workin’ an’ all. But if it’s jus’…jus’ you an’ me, like now, take ‘em off.”

“Inquisitor?”

“S’nother _barrier_ , Commander,” she informed him gravely, “Won’t have it. Not with you.” She gently lifted his hand and pressed hers against it, lining them up palm to palm, hers slender and fragile looking against his wider, rough one, her fingers long and graceful and decorated with pretty lines of ivy and ferns drawn in ink. His were scarred and bruised with a perpetual haze of dirt ground into his skin.

He swallowed roughly around the tight knot in his throat, found his heart beating a little quicker, “Is that an order, Inquisitor?”

She quirked an eyebrow at him and even through the drunk haze in her eyes, he could see the little glimmer of playfulness that sparked. “S’it need to be?”

A moment’s hesitation and then he smiled faintly and shook his head, “No. As you wish, my lady.”

“Good.”

Her hand tilted, just enough to allow her fingers to slide between his, squeezing softly and a faint tremor went through him, static jolting over his skin and nerves and down his back, making his breath catch quietly. Such a delicate, gentle touch. It did something to him, soothed the raw edges in him a little, a quiet distraction from the ache and weariness. It was…nice, to be touched so softly.

“Thank you,” she murmured after a moment, and he looked up to her, shook his head faintly, uncomprehending. She smiled, “F’trying. With th’mages. F’r…f’r trying t’have an open mind an’…an’ facin’ that fear.”

He dragged in a ragged breath and looked away, “I don’t think I deserve such thanks, my lady.” If she knew how terrified he still was, how everything inside him clenched up screaming when he saw flames spark around someone’s hands, or the soft crackle of lightning and ice. How the ozone smell of it still send parts of his mind racing in panic, how his tongue still started the words for smothering and silencing. It didn’t matter how many times he told himself that the mages had proven themselves, that they were _allies_ , that they were watching and keeping one another _grounded_ —if she _knew_ …

She _did_ know. The sad look in her eyes when he hazarded a glance up again told him as much. She smiled at him again, anyway, “Y’r getting it anyway.”

His stomach rolled uneasily, guiltily, the smell of hot steel, burning lyrium, and seared skin tickling his memories. Plaintive cries and anguished howling echoing. _If she knew_.

Her hand gently pulled away from his and he felt the loss of warmth more keenly than he ought to have. His hand curled into a loose fist, seeking to capture some of it, retain it just a bit longer, to perhaps embed the phantom feeling of her hand into his skin.

“M’be I _should_ sleep a’li’l,” she mumbled, rubbing at her eyes, “M’gonna regret drinkin’.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he replied, “But rest would do you good. I’ll see to it that you have supper waiting for you, and something for your head when you wake up.”

“Lookit _you_ , takin’ such good care ‘f’me,” she teased, teetering faintly as she walked to and crawled onto her bed, dragging up one of the furs to burrow under it.

“Look at _you_ , allowing me to,” he shot back, inspecting a pitcher and finding it filled with water. He nodded approvingly and moved it to her nightstand, along with a cup before piling another fur onto her; she didn’t seem to care much for cold, and besides that, he needed to know she was warm enough. He _never_ wanted to feel another body as icy as hers had been as long as he lived.

“S’cause y’r pretty,” came the sleepy, vague hum, barely audible with a quiet sigh. “G’night, C’mmander.”

He flushed slightly, and shook his head. Grain of salt, and all that. “Sleep well, Inquisitor,” he said, half-drawing the curtains around the bed. He was unsurprised when nothing further came from the pile of furs in the middle of the mattress, so he remained long enough only to add a few more logs to the fire and then quietly let himself out, heading to the kitchens to see to her supper and looming hangover.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pria is a cute drunk what the feeeeeck who knew. 
> 
> Anyway, found this bit sitting around in a folder collecting dust so I brushed it off, polished it up a bit and here we are, whilst I continue my apparently never-ending battle with that stupid longfic which is becoming the bane of my existence.


	10. Mother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen has been adopted, much to his bafflement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lin'asha is Haldir and Mahaal's mother, making her Pria's aunt. She's a tiny, fierce elf who comes from a clan in Antiva, and when she isn't cutting her enemies to ribbons and riding horses, she's fussing over her family and her children and making sure they're cared for. She has a habit of adopting many of the strays that come across her path, which means that she basically ends up clucking over most of the inner circle. And since Pria chose Cullen, that means Cullen is now theirs, so Lin'asha is going to make sure he is looked after, even if she had to drag him into it kicking and screaming.

 

_****_ **Mother Knows Best**

Door slamming open.

Cullen jumps so hard that he knocks over a stack of reports and cracks his knee on the underside of his desk. He winces as his eyes find the slight Dalish woman standing in the doorway.

Glowering at him.

“Lin’asha? Is there something I can—”

“When was the last time you ate, cub? Or slept, for that matter.”

He blinks, thrown again by her sharp tone. “I’m fine,” he says, a little lamely.

Her citrine bright eyes narrow and he suddenly feels eight years old again. He is trying to hide how ill he really feels, how his head hurts and how it feels that it will float off his shoulders. How his body aches and how his throat is raw like he’s swallowed glass, but he desperately _wants to go_ with his father and sister to the market because he has five whole half-sovereigns to spend and maybe, _just maybe_ , the baker will have a little chocolate he’s willing to part with. But deep brown eyes are looking at him knowingly and he knows that her judgement is inescapable. _To bed with you, love._

He shrinks under that gaze, sheepishly, and finds it hard to keep her eyes, instead reaching up to rub the back of his neck nervously. It has been years and years since he’s felt such a thing, but there it is, and everything in him instantly recognizes a _Mother’s Look._

He is slightly appalled by how easily this tiny elf has cowed him.

“Put your work _down,_ cub. You will _eat_ , and then you will _bathe_ , and then you will _rest_ ,” Lin’asha says in a gentle, steel-backed tone.

“I’m _really_ al—”

“Did it _sound_ like I was making that optional, cub?”

Cullen swallows somewhat roughly and clears his throat. “I will ask for something—”

“No.”

He wishes he really understood _why_ the elf had chosen to give him this attention. He wonders if, perhaps, with her three children all away from Skyhold, she has decided to find a sort of stand-in until their return.

“No?” he echoes in confusion, and shrinks back slightly as she takes three stalking steps into his office.

“No,” she repeats flatly, “You spend too much time in this office. You will go get something to eat, and then you will bathe— _and take your time with it_ —and then, and _only then_ may you come back here to rest. And I mean that you _will climb this ladder_ and _take to bed._ ” She stares at him for a long, long minute and then cocks an eyebrow, “Am I understood, cub?”

“Yes, ma’am,” pops out of his mouth before he knows what he’s saying and he feels his neck and face flush bright red. _Yes ma’am_ , like a child. A school boy scolded. Caught out doing what he ought not to be.

He is ten years old again and facing a gentle, loving scolding from his mother for climbing up on the roof. _Again_. Didn’t he know that was dangerous? What if he slipped and fell? He could be hurt, or worse! Maker knows what she would do if _something happened to him_.

_My bold, head-strong boy._

His scolding ends with a warm embrace that envelopes him in the smell of fresh-baked bread and gardenia. She gives him apple-lavender tarts and a kiss to his messy hair and sends him off to the barn to help his father with the afternoon chores.

Lin’asha smiles, satisfied with his acceptance, and comes around his desk to shoo him away from his chair and out the door, closing it behind them. “On with you, then, cub! And be sure to have more than an apple—you need _food_. Good things. Meat, greens, marrow, fat.”

She is tiny, walking beside him, barely coming up to his shoulder, but her arm is strong as it wraps through his and tugs him along towards the kitchens. He would feel rather ridiculous if he wasn’t so preoccupied with the unfamiliar warmth that’s bubbling through him, the unexpected contentedness that’s seeping into him from her fussing and attention.

He’s eleven years old again and even though he is starting to fuss and grumble and make a show whenever she showers him with affection, he still leans into it. He still sits quiet and still during their lessons, and he still eagerly sits at her feet after dinner is done and listens to her read aloud. He still obediently does any task she sets to him and accepts it with minimal complaint when she wipes a smudge of dirt from his face with a spit-wet thumb or handkerchief.

“This stubborn man needs to eat,” Lin’asha tells the cooks as she gently pushes him to sit at the little table in the corner.

The cooks hide their knowing laughter behind their hands and aprons and before he can protest, a generously piled plate of cheese and cold chicken and spiced vegetables and hot kidney pie is set in front of him, along with a tankard of strong, dark tea. He sighs in defeat.

“ _Eat_ , cub,” she urges, setting her hand gently on his head.

Cullen, ever dutiful, does as she says.


End file.
